


We're Gonna Rock This Joint

by gala_apples



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Bar Room Brawl, Buffy Wishverse, Drunkenness, M/M, Painplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2012-10-08
Packaged: 2017-11-15 21:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doyle is typical Irish; he gets drunk and fights. Except most Irish probably don't get off on it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're Gonna Rock This Joint

Doyle's always been a drinker. He wouldn't say he's an alcoholic, but then alcoholics never think they are either. He used to be a binge drinker, drinking a gallon and passing out, but only doing that once a month. These days the alcohol calls a bit more frequently than that. At least he’s not co-dependent. There are people that drink then use cocaine to sober themselves, or people that drink and pop prescriptions. That’s not him. He'd rather just pass out and have a quiet hangover in the morning, instead of scrambling for another fix.

There are more pubs than you can count in LA. Doyle’s been to at least half. He measures them by friendliness of the bartender. Rose is old now, but still serving. He doesn't like her bar, she tries to talk him out of having his tenth pint. Abe on the other hand doesn't care in the least, but he has a grimy clientele, nearly all crackheads. And The Leah is too family friendly to let people get rowdy. In Doyle's opinion, rowdy is the best part of drinking.

The best pub for Doyle’s needs is Lion. It's run by an old demon, but as far as Doyle knows the patrons are humans, or halfies with human faces like him. Lion is a jolly, loud place, and ol’ Finblagh has a partial medical degree so whenever fistfights occur he can patch them up for a small fee, so no one has to go to a hospital. It’s convenient.

Doyle wouldn't say it's a vice of his, that he likes brawling. More of a sub-vice. Something enjoyable caused by his real vice of drinking. He doubts a fistfight would be fun if he was sober. If he was sober he’d probably be too self-conscious to let a solid punch get him rock hard. Thankfully he’s drunk a lot.

Two seconds after he says it he doesn’t even remember what he’s said. Something about the city going to the vamps, maybe, like what happened to Sunnydale. The words don’t really matter, not when a fist is slamming into his side. Doyle jolts, muttering a curse when the sudden harsh movement makes the white head of his beer spill over the side of his glass. Such a waste. He gently places the glass down then turns to punch back. The volunteer of the night is a black guy with a shaved head wearing all black. He’s pretty enough that when Doyle jerks off about this later he won’t have to imagine a different face behind the fist.

To Doyle fighting is like being caught in a storm. There’s no sense in doing anything but waiting it out. The blows come down on his chest not like rain but like hail; they make a noise with impact and he knows from experience they’re leaving marks. Fighting back doesn’t escape the metaphor. Each hit he lands sounds to him like thunder. He can feel the skin of his knuckles scraping and splitting. It’s amazing.

It’s hard to say when the pain got good to him. It’s not like one day he just started jerking off after an excruciating vision from the PTB. He’d have to be pretty messed up, considering some of the nightmares that flush into his head. All Doyle is sure of is that now each punch is like a lightning bolt to his groin.

As always, the other guy stops first. If it was up to Doyle, this would never stop. Who in their right mind would stop when they’re in that sweet spot where orgasm is inevitable but hasn’t happened yet? Not that anyone should be able to tell. Doyle’s leather jacket is brutally worn with age. There are scorch marks, stains, scuffs, and various marks made by demons. And most importantly, it’s long enough to hide any unfortunate physical reactions.

Dole doesn’t draw attention by attempting to readjust himself as the hot black guy walks away. Nor is he going to run to the grimy men’s bathroom to jerk off. He just sits back on the stool he was occupying before, intent on enjoying the feeling. This is his calm at the eye of the storm; the time between the initial feeling of getting hurt, and recreating it in his mind once he gets home. 

Finblagh comes to him after a few minutes, complaining that he’s dripping on the bartop. Doyle likes the sticky trickle of blood down his face. It makes his face itch, which draws attention to it, and once he’s drawn it’s all the easier to feel the way his forehead is throbbing. But as a patron of Lion, it’s practically his duty to let Finblagh patch him up. Some bartenders like talking to their customers, Finblagh like sewing them up. After Finblagh seals the cut over his eye, Doyle tips him a ten and orders another pint. As he’s waiting for Fin to pour his beer Doyle tongues the split in his lip. Honestly, it’s surprising he only has one to play with. It felt like the guy punched him in the face a lot more than once. It’s probably the Brachen kicking in. You need tough facial features if spikes are going to come through your skin every few weeks.

When Finblagh deposits the stein on the table in front of him, Doyle starts to pass him a bill and gets a hand over his pinched fingers for the trouble. The touch, as light as it is, grates against his torn knuckles like sandpaper. Doyle gasps involuntarily. Hopefully the patrons around him think it’s a gasp because of sudden pain, not a gasp being pain is amazing in doses small or large.

“I’ll buy.”

Doyle thinks about it, but only for an instant. He may be a half demon aroused by fighting, but he’s also Irish. “If this is a pity drink-”

“No, man-”

Doyle finishes over him, “don’t think I won’t still take it. A man, more or less, in my position won’t refuse a drink.”

“It’s not pity. If anything it’s an apology.” Doyle’s not sorry, why should this guy be? “I’m drunk and I dust vamps for a living. You saying that was sort of crapping on my life’s work. I overreacted. I’m Gunn, by the way.”

“Doyle. Don’t worry about it. I never hold a grudge, I like fighting.”

“Yeah?” Nothing overtly sexual has been said, but Doyle still gets the distinct feeling the guy is cruising him. “If you want we could go for a round two?” Okay, and _there’s_ the undertone.

He tongues the split again as he considers the offer. He can’t really think of a reason not to. Worst case scenario this is a trick and Gunn is luring him outside because he doesn’t differentiate between vamps and demons. Getting killed has never been much of a fear for him, not since he started seeing all the worse things that could befall a person. Doyle lets standing up speak for him. Death or sex with streaks of pain, it’s all the same to him. Except Gunn doesn’t give him an anticipatory kiss before they get into his truck. He slaps Doyle’s chest, ridiculously hard. Hard enough that Doyle might have a hand shaped bruise between his pecs tomorrow. So it’s possible that a ‘round two’ means an actual round two. Which is even better than death or sex.


End file.
